Animal
by Swordy Rides Again
Summary: He might be an abhorrence, but he's the best chance they've got of winning this war. He's more than an effective attack dog - he's a weapon of mass destruction. A look at Dean's future with the Mark of Cain.


**Genre/pairing:** Gen

**Spoilers:** Events of season nine

**Warnings:** Mentions of violence, bad language, dark themes throughout

**Author's note:** Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine. I have no idea where this fic popped from, only that I had to write it.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly not mine (unlike the mistakes).

**Animal**

The bandage around his ankle hasn't stopped the chain from rubbing him raw, given the hint of red on the once-white cloth. There are one hundred and nine links in the chain he reminds himself in this fleeting moment of lucidity - just enough to allow him to reach the pot he has been given to piss in.

He rarely bothers with it though; it isn't the fucking Hilton so what's a bit of piss on the floor?

The remains of his meal sit on a plate in front of him. There's some gristle from the steak and a picked-clean chicken carcass. He hasn't gotten to the point where he eats everything, but knows they wouldn't be surprised if he did. That's what animals do, right? Although the menu is never going to win any awards for creativity, it's substantial and healthy because it's in their interests to keep him in good physical condition.

For a while, they tried to keep him mentally healthy as well. They brought him books, newspapers, music, even a television. All were eventually destroyed in one of his 'episodes' and they haven't been replaced. He wonders if they think he's being punished by this lack of stimulation. Frankly, he doesn't give a fuck.

Ever since the day he accepted the Mark, the field of his desires has narrowed until only one thing remains.

The First Blade.

The thought of wielding it consumes him completely, far beyond the scope of any of his previous poisons. Every waking moment he can think of nothing else and there's no respite in sleep either; his dreams are a constant blood-red landscape littered with the casualties of this hellish union. At first he quieted the itch of addiction with alcohol - a hunter's tried and tested solution to quelling unwanted thoughts. Now? Now he welcomes the rush it gives him, like the arrival of an old friend who announces that, rather than this being a visit, he's decided to set up home here.

The very first time he'd held the blade he could feel what it was doing to him, what it was making him _become_. Sam had talked him down from the ledge, and his initial response had been one of relief. It hadn't taken long for the doubt to set in though. If the blade made him stronger, faster - _better_ - then why the hell would he want to deny it? He knows now Sinclair had been telling the truth when he said that he would get used to these feelings. That he would grow to _want_ them.

Now, in the wake of repeated use, handing him the blade is like feeding coins into a slot machine and watching the colours light up - only in his case the colours are chaos and destruction and the prize is the bloodied, frenzied _indiscriminate_ death of anyone in the vicinity.

Beyond his prison he hears voices. Someone says 'Dean' and his brain idly reminds him that they're talking about _him_. No one ever actually calls him Dean to his face anymore, like he lost the right to a name when the last shreds of his humanity fell away.

These days no one makes eye contact with him either. They haven't since they turned him loose on a pack of demons and witnessed the horror as he ripped them apart, not stopping long after they were dead and the meat of their human hosts decorated him like a Halloween costume. Despite everything they say, he thinks they're afraid of him.

They should be.

And even though they won't look at him, he's looked at _them_, and he's seen their utter disgust at what he's become. Yet despite their repulsion, they're not about to squander what they've got. He might be an abhorrence, but he's the best chance they've got of winning this war. He's more than an effective attack dog - he's a weapon of mass destruction.

He's not oblivious to the fact that they're using him for their own gain and he knows they wouldn't mourn him if he met a bloody end in battle. Until that happens though, his life has shrunk to these four walls, remaining chained here until they find something that needs killing. When they do, he's taken out and when his work is done, they use some kind of mojo on him to knock him out, prise the blade from his blood-soaked fingers and bring him back here to wait for the next time.

When they first realised his usefulness, the ethics of the situation clearly weighed more heavily on them, or _some_ of them, at least. _He's human, we can't do this to him_, was a regular refrain whenever the discussion arose. Now they appear to have no such reservations. He can't decide if it's because they think he's not human anymore or if they just don't give a fuck.

The sound of bolts being slid back draws his attention to the door. He gets to his feet, the chain around his ankle clinking loudly as the door opens.

"You're needed," his visitor says, without preamble. "Abaddon's demons. About an hour from here. We're leaving now."

He experiences a flash of nerves - excitement is the closest he can liken it to from the days where he experienced such human emotions. The blade will be in his hand _soon_. He stretches and flexes muscles that thrum with anticipation.

"Where's the blade?" He asks.

The reply is a snort of derision. "Being kept the fuck away from you."

In the midst of this stimulating conversation a pair of handcuffs are tossed in his direction. He catches them and makes an innocent 'what are these for?' face, even though this is a routine they've done many, many times before. He does it purely to irritate, and he smirks as he twirls the cuffs on one finger.

"You know, the longer you dick about, the longer it'll be before you get your hands on your _precious_ blade."

This succeeds in wiping the smirk off his face. The cuffs fall still.

"Behind your back."

He rolls his eyes as he clicks the cuffs round one wrist, and then the other. He turns so his arms can be seen, before he can be asked to prove that he's put them on properly. He's not trusted - an animal is an animal, after all. Only when he has demonstrated that he is properly restrained will he be released from the chain around his ankle.

"Let's go. And remember: you try to pull any other crap and I'll put a bullet in your brain myself."

His eyes stray to the vicious facial wound he inflicted, back in the days when they - foolishly - thought restraints weren't necessary. He grins, but it's more like baring his teeth. "Anything for you, _brother dearest_."

Sam looks at him, but the one eye not blinded by that previous act of violence radiates contempt. That familial term, even said so mockingly, means nothing to Sam - hasn't meant anything to _either_ of them for sometime now. Through the white-hot haze that is quickly descending at the thought of holding the blade again he vaguely remembers a time where this severing of family ties would have cut him to the quick.

Now... Well now, Sam is what stands between him and his permanent possession of the First Blade. Sam would also like nothing more than to kill him right now.

It's ironic that they're finally on the same page after all their disharmony because - make no mistake - the feeling is _entirely_ mutual.

Given half a chance, he'd kill this man in a _heartbeat_.

**End**


End file.
